Black Sun
The map of agony
Is perverse cartography.
Ruining a country,
In a dumb, black sun.
Where blood is the pencil and
Sorrow the measure.
Scratched blind, upon
A tattered flag,
More red with dead,
Unfurling as the bullets stun.
The diagrams describe,
Strange paths leading
To our destiny.
Together,
We can rebuild the sun,
With faithful hands.
Beyond this cursed geography.© Will Barton
Is perverse cartography.
Ruining a country,
In a dumb, black sun.
Where blood is the pencil and
Sorrow the measure.
Scratched blind, upon
A tattered flag,
More red with dead,
Unfurling as the bullets stun.
The diagrams describe,
Strange paths leading
To our destiny.
Together,
We can rebuild the sun,
With faithful hands.
Beyond this cursed geography.© Will Barton
Proud Son
Shame on you proud son,
You share some evil genes,
Sown from devil’s loins.
Your father’s poisonous bone
Owns your soul forever.
Look what you have done,
As immoral bowels conjoin,
Forcing out demented schemes.
The free attack you now.
Each calendar will record,
Cruel celebrations,
For these days of pain.
A link time cannot sever.
Your fate is known.
This tormented genome
Is condemned,
To roam a putrid palace,
Chewing at disgusting chains,
Regurgitating malice.© Will Barton
You share some evil genes,
Sown from devil’s loins.
Your father’s poisonous bone
Owns your soul forever.
Look what you have done,
As immoral bowels conjoin,
Forcing out demented schemes.
The free attack you now.
Each calendar will record,
Cruel celebrations,
For these days of pain.
A link time cannot sever.
Your fate is known.
This tormented genome
Is condemned,
To roam a putrid palace,
Chewing at disgusting chains,
Regurgitating malice.© Will Barton
Shells
You dig in the sand,
Looking for shells.
Unaware of what is to come.
Uncertain of what has gone.
Do not be afraid.
The sea is warm today.
Let it hold you.
Open your mouth.
Feel the salty froth,
Lap in your throat.
The cliffs will hide,
Your choking yells.
As you drown,
Looking for shells.© Will Barton
Looking for shells.
Unaware of what is to come.
Uncertain of what has gone.
Do not be afraid.
The sea is warm today.
Let it hold you.
Open your mouth.
Feel the salty froth,
Lap in your throat.
The cliffs will hide,
Your choking yells.
As you drown,
Looking for shells.© Will Barton
Fingerprints
I rake our moments
Through my thoughts.
I taste your tears
Upon my lips.
I feel your footsteps
In my shoes.
I put the shell
Back in the sand.
I raise my hands.
The lion roars.
My fingerprints
Have changed to yours.© Will Barton
Through my thoughts.
I taste your tears
Upon my lips.
I feel your footsteps
In my shoes.
I put the shell
Back in the sand.
I raise my hands.
The lion roars.
My fingerprints
Have changed to yours.© Will Barton
Little Fist
The autumn leaves are falling,
On the baby in her grave.
She was just too young
And brittle,
To ever have been saved.
The colour of her skin,
Is like the frost around her,
So pale and hard and crisp.
But even as she died,
Her body found the strength,
To form a little fist.
Now the wind is calling,
As it lashes at the stone.
Calling, calling,
Calling her home.© Will Barton
On the baby in her grave.
She was just too young
And brittle,
To ever have been saved.
The colour of her skin,
Is like the frost around her,
So pale and hard and crisp.
But even as she died,
Her body found the strength,
To form a little fist.
Now the wind is calling,
As it lashes at the stone.
Calling, calling,
Calling her home.© Will Barton
History
In the crazy,
Blood-red,
Room of history,
Nothing makes sense.
The turbulence of
Fact and fiction
Spins out of control.
The brawling brats
Spawned by
Religion and expediency,
Scrawl and scratch,
To tear the truth apart.
They see no contradiction
In the irony of their embrace.
As they pause,
Each looks the other way.
The question is forgotten.
Their only definition
Is disgrace.© Will Barton
Blood-red,
Room of history,
Nothing makes sense.
The turbulence of
Fact and fiction
Spins out of control.
The brawling brats
Spawned by
Religion and expediency,
Scrawl and scratch,
To tear the truth apart.
They see no contradiction
In the irony of their embrace.
As they pause,
Each looks the other way.
The question is forgotten.
Their only definition
Is disgrace.© Will Barton
Today
There is no memory,
To remember,
The brooding heart of earth.
Slapping at the breast of
Mountain, sea and stone.
Forgive me for forgetting,
The laughing mouth of life.
Recklessly rejecting,
The stubborn frown of time.
Stained from wounds,
War and weariness.
Then waking from
This crafty trance,
Like butterflies,
We dive and dance,
The colour of sun,
In the arc of the moon.
There is no calendar to record,
This delicate ballet,
Today,
Or any other day.© Will Barton
To remember,
The brooding heart of earth.
Slapping at the breast of
Mountain, sea and stone.
Forgive me for forgetting,
The laughing mouth of life.
Recklessly rejecting,
The stubborn frown of time.
Stained from wounds,
War and weariness.
Then waking from
This crafty trance,
Like butterflies,
We dive and dance,
The colour of sun,
In the arc of the moon.
There is no calendar to record,
This delicate ballet,
Today,
Or any other day.© Will Barton
Dark Star
When we looked
Into the sky,
There was a dark star.
Like a closed eye
Waiting to blink.
We could not escape
From knowing,
Its quiet moons
Were tears,
Stroking the dead light,
Black as ink.
We did not see,
Infinite oceans of
Silent surf cavorting,
In timeless rhythms.
A universal link.© Will Barton
Into the sky,
There was a dark star.
Like a closed eye
Waiting to blink.
We could not escape
From knowing,
Its quiet moons
Were tears,
Stroking the dead light,
Black as ink.
We did not see,
Infinite oceans of
Silent surf cavorting,
In timeless rhythms.
A universal link.© Will Barton
The Tree of Life
Quietly wounding
The tree of life.
Slash, slashing
At the trunk.
Cutting.
Chunk after chunk.
Bleeding the sap,
Which seeps
From the hunk.
Slitting the wrist
Which tightens and twists.
Wetting the lips,
Which bleed
As they grip.
Slutting and licking
And wanting to kick.
Finding the knife.
Then using its edge.
Cutting the brute
From the bark,
To the shoot.
Battering, beating,
Making it mute.© Will Barton
The tree of life.
Slash, slashing
At the trunk.
Cutting.
Chunk after chunk.
Bleeding the sap,
Which seeps
From the hunk.
Slitting the wrist
Which tightens and twists.
Wetting the lips,
Which bleed
As they grip.
Slutting and licking
And wanting to kick.
Finding the knife.
Then using its edge.
Cutting the brute
From the bark,
To the shoot.
Battering, beating,
Making it mute.© Will Barton
The Stone
I know,
That on this beach,
There is a stone,
Which has your eyes.
I finger the shoreline,
Like it is a deckled edge.
Sifting the day’s catch,
Hoping to find you,
Watching me.© Will Barton
That on this beach,
There is a stone,
Which has your eyes.
I finger the shoreline,
Like it is a deckled edge.
Sifting the day’s catch,
Hoping to find you,
Watching me.© Will Barton
willbartonart.com 